


A Way Back Inside (Every Last Thought of Love We Made)

by poppetawoppet



Series: this quiet night [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Angst, Gen, M/M, No really angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John erases Sherlock</p>
<p>title is lyrics from "Rapid Eye Movement" by David Cook</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Way Back Inside (Every Last Thought of Love We Made)

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to This Loud Morning by David Cook, and the album is bookended by two songs, Circadian and Rapid Eye Movement, I wrote Circadian almost four years ago, and was recently inspired to write John's side. It helps to read the first

John first thinks about it two weeks after his honeymoon, when his first thought to a fellow doctor's suggestion was 'but Sherlock would."

He gathers the brochures the first time he and Victoria have an argument, and he begins to dial Sherlock's number.

One year, six months, two days and five hours after he moves to Scotland, John Watson lays on a hospital bed, and rubs his ringless hands together.

"Dr. Watson?"

He looks at the anesthesiologist. There's a sadness around her eyes that reminds him of Molly.

"I'm Tessa," she says. "I'll be getting you prepared for the procedure. By law I'm supposed to ask one last time, if you'd like to reconsider?"

John blinks. Once. Twice.

"No. I'm sure."

Tessa sets up the IV and a monitor, writing down a time in John's chart.

"All right then, Doctor Lewis will be here in a few minutes. Try to think about what you are here to forget."

She walks out of the room.

"Not like I think of anything else," John says.

Ever since his divorce (which surprisingly had less to do with Sherlock, and more to do with that he and his wife loved each other, they just didn't like each other as much as they could,) he's been aimless, and suffering from insomnia. He keeps turning to say something to Sherlock, and there's a slight limp in his step that is all too familiar.

A doctor enters the room, looks at the chart.

"Are you beginning to feel drowsy, Dr. Watson?"

"A little, yes," he says.

"Good. That's normal. You should be slightly aware of me the whole time. I'll be walking you through the procedure, even though you won't really hear me."

"Okay."

"I want you to close your eyes. When you breathe in, think of what you want to forget. When you breathe out, think of a house. Every room is a memory, and as you leave each room, it will be empty."

John drifts. The last words he remembers are "You arrive at the door of the house."

*

**(the door)**

John blinks. It's never this quiet on Baker Street. He looks at the familiar black door, then up and down the street. The doctor is two doors down. She says nothing, so he walks to the door. He raises his hand to the numbers, tracing them with the tips of his fingers.

"Not like you to forget your key."

John has heard the voice in his head for so long, he almost doesn't turn.

"I didn't realize you were keeping track," he says, and turns.

He blinks, because the Sherlock of his mind looks a little paler and thinner. John thinks it is because he imagines Sherlock overworking himself in the last year or so. Sherlock tips his head to the side, and there's a slight lift at the corner of his lips.

"I observe," Sherlock says.

"I observe," John says back, and throws his hands up. "That's just so you, you _observe_ and so rarely _do_ , that when you act, it's rash and terrible and damn the consequences."

"If you are speaking of the incident last year when I went to the clinic to erase you from my mind, I do wish to remind you that you left me," Sherlock says.

"I moved out of the country! I didn't die, unlike some people I know!"

"I worked best with you by my side, not hours away."  
John resists the urge to hit him, the make the Sherlock of his mind understand.

"Who says I wasn't going to come back at some time? Who says I couldn't have rung you up and helped you then? You just erase me and everything we did from your life?"

"You took too much room."

John shakes his head, "No. That's what Lestrade told me. What you told him to tell me. I think you cared too much. Cared too much and hated that you did."

"And you did not?"

Sherlock turns and disappears around the street corner. John watches for a moment, then turns to the door and steps in.

*

**the stairs**

John waits for the door to close behind him before setting foot on the stairs. He stops at the familiar creek of the fifth one up, hand gripping the railing.

He realizes he's waiting for Mrs. Hudson to chide him about the noise, and sits on the steps, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Up or down, doctor, don't just hover between," Sherlock says in a fair imitation of Mrs. Hudson.  
John looks up, and Sherlock is leaning against the door, and in the corner collecting dust, John's cane. 

"For all you made me angry, I do remember how we laughed," John says. "I was happy here."  
"Then why did you go?"

"You weren't the only person who made me happy, you know."  
Sherlock looks pointedly at John's bare hands. "You wouldn't be here if you were happy."

"I wouldn't be here if I could actually talk to you! I didn't get divorced because of anything to do with you! My first thought, when we separated, my first thought, I'll just ring Sherlock and see how's he managing and you took that away from me. Didn't even ask, not that you would have, you never ask permission, but didn't even give me a choice!"

"You took too much space."

John laughs, "Oh yes, that vast mind palace of yours, too cluttered. Too full, even though I distinctly remember you telling me I was invaluable to your work. To you."

"You were," Sherlock says, and fades into the shadows.

*

**the flat**

John opens the fridge, shaking his head at the three Milky Bars, four jars of marmalade and one apple that constituted the only actual food. He closes the door and puts the kettle on, automatically setting out two cups.

"Still one sugar, light milk?" he asks.

"It's not real."

John looks out the kitchen, to Sherlock, who is lying on the couch. The cups and kettle disappear. His chair appears next to the couch, so he walks over and sits, watching Sherlock stare at the ceiling, his mouth forming silent words.

"What are you doing?"

"Calculating the distance of blood splatters of a six inch knife, and how they compare to that of a three inch knife."

"I see."

"Do you? I am, after all, something that exists solely in your memory, so everything I say comes from some line of thought of your own. So you know what I will say, so why ask?"

"Maybe I'm just trying to find an answer I haven't thought of yet," John says.

Sherlock sits up. "An answer?"

"Lestrade said you wanted to make space in your head, that I took too much room."

"Is that why you are trying to rid yourself of me? I take too much room?"

John lets out a breath, because it is partly true.

"I'm just tired of hearing you in my head. Tired of your pithy comments about me wasting my life, what the color of my patient's socks mean, how dreary and dull and _ordinary_ I am."

Sherlock blinks, and says, "There you have it. Your mundane existence had no place in me. Much better to pretend it never happened."

John bangs his fist into the arm of his chair. "You'd be dead without me! Bleeding in some alley, or worse, because you are entirely incapable of taking care of yourself!"

"But you left anyway."

"Not without making sure someone was going to be there! You were the one who decided to write me off, that I wasn't necessary anymore. It wasn't like I was leaving forever."

"I do believe," Sherlock says, "that is the very meaning of 'until death do us part.' "

"My marriage and our friendship weren't mutually exclusive things, Sherlock."

"Yes but marriage means married friends and possible babies and too many things I don't care about."

John shakes his head. "Of course, of course. Because that's what really matters. What you care about. Not that I cared about you."

Sherlock looks at his watch, stands. He walks out of the door with a swirl of his coat, and is gone.

*

**John's room**

John sits on the edge of his bed, running his hand up and down the familiar red quilt. He lies down for a moment, and can almost hear the echo of Sherlock playing the violin. He doesn't miss the stiff mattress, or the chill from the windows. He sits up, and smoothes the crease he has made.

"I never understood making the bed. After all, all you are going to do is sleep in it again."

"Waste of time," John says.

"Yes."

Sherlock sits next to John, his coat brushing the back of John's hand.

"You had to know I was going to leave eventually," John says.

"I did," Sherlock says.

"I don't…I don't understand. I moved on."

"You are here, which indicates that you did not."

"No. I suppose I didn't."

He traces a finger along the edge of Sherlock's coat, until his hand is on top of a ghostly pale one. It seems real and solid (and as cold as John remembers.)

"But I did move forward," John says. "Like most people, I continued on with the world as it should be. You went backwards."

Sherlock does not speak.

"That's all I wanted to know," John continues. "All that's been digging deep since I walked out the flat the last time. Lestrade says it was to clear your mind, your precious vast mind that has catalogued every kind of poison, pill and antidote on Earth, but no room for the years I occupied your life."

"Is the memory of me what you want to forget?" Sherlock asks.

"What?"

Sherlock finally turns to look at John, and they are so close, John can feel his breath as he speaks.

"I told Lestrade to tell you I had no room for you. It is you who inferred where."

The room is still except for the small 'oh' that escapes John's lips. Then they sit on the bed, John's hand on top of Sherlock's, and say nothing—everything.

"That's why you are here," Sherlock says.

"Because I have no space for you?" John asks.

"Because you gave me too much space, and when I forgot you…"

John closes his eyes. The room is silent again, and the only thing beneath his hand is the red quilt.

"All my rooms were empty," he says.

221b is muted and dust covered as John closes the doors and turns out the lights.

"Sherlock was right. It's better this way. Cleaner."

*

His sister drives him to his temporary flat, and speaks of mundane things, the telly, going to the market, and such.

"Do you know where my old telescope is?" John asks as they park.

"Probably still at mum's and dad's, I imagine. Why?" Harry asks.

"Don't know. Thought I might take up star gazing."

She makes sure he gets to bed, and tells him she'll be right here for the next week or so.  
John pulls his duvet closer, although there's no chill from the window. He watches what he can see of the sky until he sleeps.

He wakes the next morning, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he slept. Whatever he forgot, it must have haunted him so. 

He shuffles into the kitchen and makes some toast and teal, goes through his normal morning routine until Harry wakes and chides him about not making his bed.

"Not much point if all I'm going to do is sleep in it again," he says.

"Who are you, and where is my brother?"

John laughs, and goes back into his room to get his clothes. 

He can't seem to shake the chill in the room, and thinks he may have the window looked at anyway.

He looks at his duvet, and wonders if a red one would look good in this room, and then shakes his head before finally smoothing the sheets and pillows. 

He stands back and looks at it, satisfied his room is put to rights.

That everything is put to rights.

*


End file.
